Luck Or Lack Thereof
by NotFlyingWithOtters
Summary: Captain Crieff needs a flatshare in London. So does Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

_Cabin!Lock fanfic :3_

_Multichapter fic I think, though updates will be sporadic..._

_Pairing: Martin/Sherlock (but not right this minute)_

_Trigger warning for drug use_

* * *

Martin Crieff was down on his luck, he always had been. But this was different. He needed a flat share in London. London. The most expensive city in the UK and he had to get a flat share there. He sighed as he walked through the city, looking through the papers, for anything that he might be able to afford. One caught his eye. 221b Baker Street. He glanced at his watch; he could go now if he caught the tube. He looked around at the city and shrugged. He had nothing to lose.

* * *

221b was refreshingly ordinary, and when he got there the landlady gave him a hug and a cup of tea, informing him that the other part of his potential flat share had already moved in, and would be home in about half an hour. Martin nodded once, looking through the windows at the quiet street outside.

"I'll take it." The flat share was reasonable, the landlady was nice, the area was good. He nodded once. "Yes. I'll take it."

"Are you sure you don't want to meet Sherlock first? He's rather... Odd." Martin nodded absent-mindedly.

"I can't afford to pass up such a reasonable flat share. Besides, he can't be as bad as Douglas." Martin suppresses a shudder, his thin shoulders shaking. He hears the door slam and turns to see his new flatmate. Tall, strikingly handsome, though not in the conventional sense and carrying a head. Martin blinked, a little shell shocked.

"M-Martin Crieff; pleased to meet you." Sherlock turned, tilting his head to one side.

"You're an airline pilot on a small charter air firm. You failed at least five times and your family gave up, however shortly after your father died you proved them wrong. You don't have much money, hence why you're looking for a flat share. You're a pilot, but incredibly insecure about it, and you have no confidence." He rattled off all these facts, folding his arms. "Sherlock Holmes." Martin squeaked, a red flush rising over his face.

"Y-you're absolutely r-right."

"I see you've taken the flat."

"Yes but... How did you know all of that, I've never seen you before in my life."

"I simply observed." He huffs out a breath and disappears into the kitchen, where the bagged head is carefully stored on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

"I... Right." He pauses, biting his lower lip. "My hours... They aren't set in stone."

"You work two jobs, obviously you don't get paid for being a pilot so you need another job to support yourself." Martin flushed a deep red colour that clashed horribly with his hair.

"How did you...?" He ducks his head. "It doesn't matter." Sherlock looked at him.

"I've upset you."

"No I'm fine." He keeps his head down.

"Captain?" He looks up at this, biting his lower lip.

"Yes?" His voice is dull and toneless.

"I didn't mean to cause offence, it's just how I am. If I hurt you, I'm sorry."

"You don't have to pretend to care, I've had it from Douglas for years. I'm used to getting hurt." He shrugs a little.

"It wasn't my intention." He looks a little forlorn, but it is quickly dispelled.

"I'm still going to rent, if you're worried about needing the money. I'll... Sort it out." He nods once. "Nice meeting you, Sherlock." He turns and leaves, shaking his head.

* * *

Martin moved in. He didn't have much, so the move was pretty painless. Mrs Hudson, the landlady was kind to him if he missed rent, or if he couldn't pay the full price. He looked down at his shoes when Sherlock came home, and sometimes he didn't come home at all. He was hardly ever home though, so it didn't matter. It really didn't matter. It didn't matter that he'd hardly spoken to the man, that he didn't really know anything about him, he just got by. Until, that is, he came home after a long haul flight from Beijing and returned to see his flatmate lying on the sofa, syringe in hand. He squeaked and put his coat - fairly shabby and mended in several places - on the hook. He carefully tiptoed across to Sherlock, wincing at the angry red mark on his arm.

"Sherlock?" His voice was soft and he gently moved the syringe from his hand. Sherlock didn't even stir. Carefully, he checked his vital signs and, with a worried glance, put the syringe on the sink in the kitchen. When he returned, Sherlock was still spark out on the sofa, heavy black shadows reminiscent of bruising beneath his eyes. Martin let out a shaky breath and carefully tucked a blanket around him, rearranging it so that Sherlock was more comfortable. He went and made coffee. He had a week off after this, another all nighter wouldn't hurt.

* * *

In the morning, Martin made strong, sweet tea and knelt beside Sherlock.

"M-Mr Holmes?" He delicately touched his shoulder and then stepped back.

"It's Sherlock. My brother is 'Mr Holmes'." Came the disgruntled reply from under the blanket.

"S-sorry..."

"Where did this blanket come from?" He tilts his head to one side.

"Oh I... I put it over you l-last night when I got home." Martin stammers, stepping a little further back.

"Oh." The knowledge that Martin had seen him use was clear in his mind. If he'd been a different person, he would have looked down in shame. Instead he fixed him with a curiously clear gaze. "What did you do with it?"

"W-With what? The uh... Thing? It's in the sink..."

"It's a syringe, Martin." Sherlock reprimanded slightly, but he winced a little as he stretched his arm.

"Y-yes of course sorry." He drops his gaze, but hears himself speak again. "I... Do you w-want me to take a look at your arm?" He asks quietly.

"Why?" Sherlock sniffs haughtily but winces again.

"I've d-done a first aid course. I'm a pilot I have to know some... Basic medical training. It's just looks painful." He keeps his eyes flicked downwards.

"That would be a kindness I don't deserve." Sherlock's baritone rumbles. Martin shrugged a little uncomfortably.

"I think you deserve it..." He rocks back on his heels. "Do you want me to?"

"It would be nice if you would." Martin nods and hurries to the kitchen where the first aid kit is. He brings it slowly back into the lounge and unbuttons the cuff of Sherlock's shirt and rolls it up.

"Don't judge me for whatever you see." His flatmate says softly, for the first time panic flashes in his eyes.

"I won't." Martin says as equally softly. He rolls the sleeve up to his mid bicep and sets about silently cleaning the wound with antiseptic. He doesn't say a word to indicate that he'd seen the scarred track marks running up Sherlock's arm as well as the fresh puncture. He feels Sherlock jerk beneath his touch and absently strokes his hand to calm him. He soothes him like a frightened child, saying nothing, relying on touch alone. He reaches for a soft pad of gauze and some surgical tape, and he carefully dressed the wound. With a steady hand he packed up the kit and replaced it in the kitchen. "I'm not that good, but I hope it helped." The previous anxiety and stutter is gone and he gently rolls his shirt down again, buttoning the cuff. His fingers linger against Sherlock's wrist for a moment, but then he stands again and heads to his bedroom. He has paperwork to do for Carolyn.

* * *

_Tell me if you like it? _


	2. Chapter 2

_Hey hey! Another chapter :3 I hope you like it! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone (:_

* * *

Martin had lived at Baker Street five months before he met Lestrade and the rest of the team at Scotland Yard; and even then it was by accident.

"Will you come?" He turned at the voice, visibly jumping as Sherlock glared at the intruder.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asks, his rich baritone voice drawling out over the other mans stuttered explanations.

"Anderson."

"No." Martin watched the exchange with interest.

"Please." The man only now seemed to notice Martin. "Who are you?"

"Captain Crieff." Sherlock drawled before Martin could answer. "I can't. You're on your own, inspector." The other man looked at him and then offered a hand for him to shake.

"Pleasure." Martin said softly, shaking the proffered hand and looking up into the mans warm brown eyes.

"I'm sure." He nods slowly. "DI Lestrade, of Scotland Yard."

"Captain Martin Crieff, MJN Air." Martin felt a small smile break over his face. He hadn't stuttered that time.

"What brings you here? A case?" Martin frowned, his nose wrinkling.

"N-no I'm Sherlock's flatmate." He said softly, finally releasing the DI's hand. Lestrade frowned.

"You are? But I was here the other day and you weren't."

"I'm an airline pilot, I often work strange hours." Martin shrugged. Lestrade nodded and turned his attention back to Sherlock, who was staring out the window.

"How about you both come for drinks with us tonight?" Lestrade asked the quiet room. "The Yard." He elaborated.

"I don't have much money..." Martin felt his face flush, even more so when Sherlock spoke.

"You can use my card." Sherlock drawled as Lestrade watched the two of them carefully.

"Is that a yes, Martin?"

"I... If that's okay with you." He said softly, looking at the detective a little apprehensively.

"Great! Sherlock?"

"Why would I do that? It's dull." Sherlock said flippantly.

"Okay, Martin then? The pub just around the corner at seven." Martin nods.

"T-thank you sir." He said softly, feeling a little overwhelmed.

"See you then." Lestrade passed one more look at Sherlock and sighed, before turning away and heading back downstairs.

"You d-don't mind, do you?" Martin asked to fill the silence.

"Where you go and what you do is of no consequence to me." Sherlock said coolly.

"Oh."

"Nor is who you are with. Good day, Captain Crieff."

* * *

Martin arrived at the pub at five past seven and slid inside, the warm atmosphere already clinging to him. The man from earlier waved him over with a smile.

"Hey, Martin, over here!" Martin made his way slowly to the table, sitting down and fidgeting a little as he shifted his gaze over the company he was in. Lestrade asked him what he was having and Martin only asked for something small. His alcohol tolerance was really low, and as present company seemed to be mostly members of the police force, he did not want to be drunk. Lestrade returned with half a pint of the cheapest beer and set it in front of the pilot, who carefully sipped it slowly, savouring it.

"So you've moved in with the freak then?" Piped up a voice from the corner, a woman. For some reason, calling Sherlock a freak struck something in Martin's chest. The woman had no right to judge.

"I have moved in with Sherlock, yes." Martin was amazed he didn't stutter, but chalked it up to the fact that he didn't particularly like the woman.

"Why?" The woman clearly wasn't impressed, and her eyes implied something that made Martin's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Sally..." Lestrade warned, his eyes flashing angrily.

"It's a valid question Greg!" She turned her attention back on Martin.

"The flat was reasonable and I needed a place to live." He remarked offhandedly, hoping to sound flippant. He was however, uncomfortably aware of his jacket that was slightly too big due to his recent weight loss, and that his clothes were well kept but definitely not new. Sally roved her eyes over him, and he swallowed thickly, sipping some more of the beer to try and soothe himself.

"Aren't you a pilot?" She asked him, her eyes flicking over his shabby clothes.

"Of a small charter air firm, yes." He muttered evasively, hoping Greg would interject. Thankfully, the silver haired man did interrupt, bringing up a rather amusing case story of how some bloke called Anderson (the sour faced man in the corner, judging by the swearing) had fallen into the sewer on a crime scene. He settled down, watching the others carefully, sipping his drink, gradually finishing it.

Donovan eyed him up all evening, but he paid no attention to her, instead being absorbed in the other conversations; when the issue of math was raised, he tentatively claimed to be good. He substantiated this claim by helping another man, Dimmock, he believed was his name, sort out how to balance his spending so his pay would last to the end of the month. The others seemed pretty impressed by this and Dimmock bought him another drink as a thank you. By the time ten o clock had rolled around, Martin was feeling included in the group, not so nervous. When he finished his drink, he caught Lestrade's eye and made to stand.

"I'm flying out to Warsaw in the morning." He says by apology. "M-maybe we can do this again soon?" He suggested hesitantly. Lestrade nods and Dimmock stood to shake his hand.

"Of course! We'd love to see you again." Martin felt himself flush at their words.

"T-Thank you then. I'll see you again when I'm back." He gave them all a small smile and made his way out of the pub, standing on the corner as a warn breeze rolled past him. He took a deep breath and headed back to Baker Street, hands in his pockets. Once there, he almost silently slipped inside and paused as he took in the sight of his flatmate asleep on the sofa again. A low thrum of worry built in his stomach, before he saw that he was just sleeping soundly, arms clear of marks except those that were slowly fading.

"Sherlock?" He said softly, making his way through the crowded living room. "Sherlock?" The other man seemed dead to the world, and Martin gently knelt by his side again. "Sherlock...?" There was no rousing him. With a soft sigh, he walked to Sherlock's bedroom and opened the door, pulling back the duvet on the bed and closing the curtains. Once done, he went back into the other room and lifted Sherlock up into his arms; the job with Icarus Removals had made him a lot stronger than he seemed. He placed him gently on the bed and tucked the duvet around him, a small smile on his face.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't up when Martin left for Fitton airfield in the morning, so he left a note on the table for the first time ever.

_I moved you last night; you always complain about your back hurting when you fall asleep on the sofa._  
_You're welcome_  
_Martin_

Sherlock woke in his bed, a little confused as to how he got there until he saw the note on the table. He felt a small smile grace his face for a moment, and slipped the note into his pocket. Regardless as to whether Martin would get the text, he fired one off anyway.

_Thank you_  
_SH_

* * *

_Drop me a review if you liked it! _


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey hey! Another chapter :3 I hope you like it! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone (:_

_Dedicated to Frankie, my wonderful roleplay partner and the Martin Crieff to my Sherlock (captain-m-crieff . tumblr . com)_

* * *

Martin was used to being skinny, he was perpetually skinny in fact, and normally it didn't make a difference. It wasn't exactly like he could do anything about it, so he didn't worry. He did, however, get worried when he woke one day and was too weak to even get up. The logical part of his mind kicked in and told him that, rationally, it couldn't be just because he was skinny.

But in the back of his mind a voice murmured that because he was borderline underweight, his immune system had become compromised and he was at a higher risk of sickness. This was proved when a wave of nausea rolled through him. He whimpered softly and buried his face in the pillow. Work was definitely off for the foreseeable, which meant no money.

He gave a tiny yelp as stomach cramps joined the fray, causing him to curl up in the foetal position. Definitely no work today. He resigned himself to a slow recovery, and curled up under his duvet. A few minutes later, he was sweating copiously, and he kicked the duvet off, immediately making him freezing. He moaned a little and forced himself up, wobbling to the bathroom and leaning against the bath as stomach cramps ripped through him.

Once they'd subsided, the nausea returned, and he barely made it to the toilet in time, emptying his stomach into the white porcelain. He gave a miserable cough and dragged himself up to flush and wash the taste of vomit from his mouth.

"Oh." Came a small voice from the doorway, and Martin turned to see his flatmate standing there in a plain blue t shirt that swamped him, and a pair of dark blue pyjama bottoms that were short enough to show his ankles.

"Sorry." Martin rasped, the stomach acid in his throat making speech an issue.

"You're sick...?" Sherlock wrinkles his nose and frowns.

"Y-yes. I'm sorry if it inconveniences you." Martin mumbles, the sour taste of vomit still rich in his mouth.

"Oh, no its okay." Sherlock ventures towards him, then thinks better of it. With an alarming change of heart, Sherlock leans against the door jamb. "If you need anything, just shout." Martin nods, too tired, his brain fogged with sickness and exhaustion.

"Th-thank you." His teeth were chattering and he forced his jaw to clench. "C-could you phone Carolyn for me? I c-can't go to work like this." He gestured feebly to himself and nearly collapsed from the movement. Sherlock smoothly stepped in and caught him as he fell, supporting him.

"Of course." The baritone is rich and clear, unlike Martin's. "Can you make it back upstairs?"

"I... Maybe." He eyed the stairs with trepidation and it is only Sherlock holding him up that ensured he didn't fall. He took a couple of steps and felt the room spinning around him. "Scratch that, I don't think I can make it." He said miserably, his voice very small.

"Is the sofa okay?" Sherlock asked him kindly, his voice soft and not as it had been before.

"D-don't you sit there?"

"Social protocol dictates that as you are sick I should look after you. I repeat, is the sofa okay?" Martin strained his ears for an indication that Sherlock was irritated, but was met with only sincerity. He nodded carefully, the room spinning a little again.

"Y-yes it will be fine, thank you." It is Sherlock's arms that guided him down to the chair, settled him and ghosted briefly over his forehead as his flatmate took his temperature.

"You're a bit hot... Do you want anything cold to drink?" Sherlock asked with genuine sincerity.

"P-please." Martin turned over, the nausea rising in his stomach again. He felt truly horrendous, his head ached, his stomach ached, his throat burned and his stomach was roiling, twisting and turning in his abdomen. Martin felt sick to the core, a reminder of the time he got food poisoning in Japan.

"Drink this, it will help." Sherlock said softly from somewhere on his right, holding out a glass of iced water. Martin struggled to sit upright, and Sherlock's arm immediately looped around his waist, holding him up. "Deep breaths, Martin." The baritone rumbled.

"I'm going to be sick." His voice shook and was panicky. Sherlock gently slipped a bowl onto his lap and stroked his hair as the pilot emptied his stomach. Martin coughed weakly, falling back against the sofa and finding support in his flatmate.

"Rinse your mouth out." Sherlock's voice was gentle and patient "Then take a few deep breaths in, I'll wash this out and come back, if you want me to that is." The weakness in Martin took over and he nodded.

"I don't want to be alone." He whispered softly. Sherlock nodded.

"Rinse your mouth out, or you'll feel sicker." He brought the glass to Martin's lips and tipped it slightly. Martin did as he was asked, and spat the water into the bowl weakly.

"T-thank you." He murmured, exhaustion taking hold.

"It's okay; try to get some sleep." Sherlock carefully released him and took the bowl to the sink, washing it out and taking it back to where Martin was. The pilot was in the in between stage of sleeping and waking, and Sherlock softly touched his hand.

"Sherlock..." The pilot murmured softly, taking the hand on his.

"Get some sleep, Martin." He told him gently, but didn't move his hand from the grip of the others. The pilot nodded and turned into the sofa, shaking. Sherlock sat on the floor holding his hand loosely in his own. Through the rest of the night Martin woke four times and was sick each time, progressively getting more shaky and pale. Sherlock was unendingly patient and the fourth time he woke he sat on the sofa with Martin and gently stroked his hair until the pilot stopped trembling.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Martin asked weakly.

"You're sick." Sherlock makes a big play out of a shrug, though in all honesty he doesn't know either. Normally when people are sick, he runs a mile, but not this time.

"Go back to sleep." He soothed softly and settled on the sofa.

"Will you stay?" Martin felt weak asking, but he felt so awful and really didn't want to be alone.

"I've stayed so far, I see no reason to leave now." He told him steadily, tucking the blanket around the pilot again. Martin nodded and rested against Sherlock, feeling hot and sweaty and disgusting; his mouth tasted like that time they got drunk before a flight and he got hungover the next day. He let out a small moan and Sherlock gingerly stroked his hair, ignoring how sweaty it was.

"I'm glad you're here." Martin murmured, rolling over to rest on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock felt a surprising rush of affection for the man on his chest, and waited until Martin was asleep before he wrapped his arms around him and presses one kiss lightly and tenderly to the top of the pilots head.

"Me too."

* * *

_Drop me a review if you liked it! _


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey hey! Another chapter :3 I hope you like it! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone (:_

* * *

Roughly nine months after Martin moved in, he met Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes brother carried himself with such resolute power and dignity that it frightened Martin.

"Is Sherlock in?" He drawled, leaning on an umbrella and watching Martin with clear intelligent eyes.

"N-no sir." Martin stammered, face flushing with embarrassment at his stutter.

"Good." Martin gulped. "Captain Crieff, isn't it?"

"Y-yes." Martin told him, trying to inject some authority into his voice and failing miserably.

"How long have you known my brother?"

"I... Oh... Um about nine months I think." He dithered, feeling exposed and flustered in his presence.

"Yes, and you haven't left yet? Curious..."

"H-he's given me no reason to leave." Martin hesitated before speaking again. "D-do people normally leave him?" He asked quietly, looking up at the taller man in front of him.

"He usually... Unnerves them." Mycroft stated for him. "The head in the fridge normally puts people off." He swung his umbrella up to inspect the tip for a moment.

"I... I find him okay." Martin squeaked, drawing himself up to his full height.

"Curious." Mycroft mused for a few moments and then swung the umbrella down to lean on again.

"What is?"

"Your... Partnership with my younger brother." Mycroft stated idly.

"W-what are you implying because you're wrong we're not a couple I'm not gay it doesn't make me gay because I live with a man and haven't had a girlfriend in four... Four years." His voice dropped on the last few words and he flushed, uncomfortably aware that he'd babbled and said too much again.

"I was implying nothing of the sort." Mycroft fixed him with a steady look. "Merely curious."

"W-what about?" Martin worried his lower lip with his teeth, still flushed a pale pink colour that clashed with his hair.

"Sherlock doesn't have friends; I'm sure I don't need to tell you why. But here you are, nine months after first meeting him with no desire to run away, it seems."

"H-he's not that bad." Martin squirms a little under the mans intense gaze. Mycroft Holmes has the kind of eyes that bored into a persons very soul. Although not bright, like his younger brothers, they were a curious blue that was almost black, and unnerved Martin. He found his mind drifting to Sherlock's eye colour, and how much nicer it was. Mycroft was speaking again, and Martin dragged his thoughts from Sherlock.

"I'm- I'm sorry to interrupt sir, but why exactly are you here?" The pilot rushed out, standing with hands behind his back and shoulders squared.

"Interested party is all." Mycroft gave him a strange smile and leant on his umbrella as he prepared to leave. "Felt I had to meet the man my brother speaks so highly of."

"Sherlock talks about me?" Martin felt his eyes widen slightly.

"Oh yes." Mycroft tilted his head. "But I must go, simply cannot spare time with idle gossip, not with the Russian nuclear meeting coming up... Not that you need to know anything about that."

"But... Sherlock..." Martin felt a little dazed.

"Goodbye, captain Crieff. I will be seeing you again." Martin nodded and watched him go, before sinking into an armchair.

* * *

Sherlock returned that evening to paperwork scattered all over the table, and Martin sat in the epicentre of the sheets, deep in thought. He picked his way around the stacks, sniffing disdainfully.

"What are you doing?"

"Accounts for MJN, Carolyn asked me to." He didn't look up, scribbling a few notes down and stacking the monthly invoices from 2008 together. He stretched out and yawned, staring at the invoice from 2011 in his lap. Sherlock was still staring at him. "Do you want something, Sherlock?"

"My brother was here." The consulting detective positively growled.

"Mhm..." Martin replied, a pen in his mouth as he read through another sheet of paper.

"Why?" Sherlocks voice dropped again and he gave another growl.

"No reason specifically. Wanted to see me apparently." Pen in hand, Martin finished another round of calculations.

"You?" Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.

"Said you talk about me." Martins voice was light but he didn't look up.

"Oh." Martin felt a little proud that he'd rendered Sherlock speechless, and took the opportunity gladly.

"If you're not doing anything could you help me out?" He stacked another pile.

"Busy." Sherlock snapped and swept into the kitchen. Martin sighed and resumed his paperwork, scrawling a few notes on the cover sheet and a few more calculations. Within the hour he had finished, stacking all the paper back together and filing it again.

"Sherlock?" The other man didn't move from his position at his microscope. "Sherlock are you eating tonight?" Sherlock looked up, exhausted rings under his eyes.

"Should I?"

"It's been three days, you're nearly thinner than me." Martin meant it as a joke, but his voice was a little harsher than it should have been.

"Right, yes okay. I'll eat. I'll order in Chinese." Martin nods and sits at the table opposite him.

"I would have cooked, you only had to ask."

"Oh, no its okay." Sherlock looks up from his microscope. "What's the number?"

"It's written here..." He hands him the menu and watches him carefully, before shaking himself out of his daydream and standing. "I will cook one of these days." Martin said to no one in particular.

"Are you good?" Sherlock looked up with interest, hair sticking up at odd angles. "Because I'll give you my card and you can buy the ingredients on it."

"I'm not bad. Better than Arthur and 'surprising rice'." He told him with a small laugh. "If you'd like me to I will."

"I've never been able to cook, I envy those who can. It would be nice to see if you can cook." Sherlock smiled at him and went back to looking at his specimen. Martin nodded, a little dazed.

"Of... Of course." He walked from the room, heading for his own room and the sanctuary there. He was at the door, intent on staying there until the food arrived when Sherlock shouted from behind him.

"By the way... Did you ask my brother about the diet?"

"What? No, of course not."

"Pity."

* * *

_Drop me a review if you liked it! _


	5. Chapter 5

_Hey hey! Another chapter :3 I hope you like it! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone (:_

* * *

Martin was woken at three am by the sound of a violin playing a tune he didn't recognise. He sat up wearily and pulled a jumper on, the cool air making him shiver. The notes were clear and true, the bow expertly handled. Martin realised with a jolt that he'd been listening for ten minutes straight, with no desire to stop.

Almost in a dream state, the pilot stood and opened the door, the sound getting louder as he padded down the stairs, clear violin notes hanging in the air, a symphony of crystal notes loud and enveloping. He reached the door of the lounge and carefully opened it, leaning against the door frame as he watched his flatmate play, his hips swaying slightly in time with the music. Martin felt a strange urge to walk over and secure his arms around that thin waist and bury his face in the dent between Sherlock's shoulders. The urge rolled through his mind, but he quickly dispelled it in favour of the music continuing.

Martin had always loved violin music, but the only instrument he was competent at was piano. Douglas was better, he'd proved that on their foray into the Devonshire countryside. Martin had felt an irrational stab of jealousy at Arthur's adoration for Douglas because he could play. It was the only thing Martin was remotely good at, but Douglas had to be better. He was abruptly aware that the music had stopped, it stalled his embittered train of thought. Sherlock was staring at him, looking almost frightened. Martin rearranged his features into a smile.

"That was beautiful." He told him gently, still leaning against the doorframe.

"That's... That's not what people usually say." Sherlock was still holding the violin in his hands, the tip of the bow scraping the floor.

"What do people normally say?"

"A combination of profanities whilst informing me what the time is. I am perfectly capable of telling the time." Sherlock sniffed haughtily. Martin flashed him a small smile.

"I thought it was beautiful. And okay, maybe three in the morning is not the best time to play violin, but I'm not really complaining."

"Really?" Sherlock seemed to be stopped short.

"Really." Martin finally pulled away from the door and stepped into the room. "I've always loved violin music."

"Your sister plays." Sherlock remarked softly. "Played. Back when you were young." Martin flushed and nodded.

"Is it really that obvious?" Sherlock gave a wry smile.

"You tilted your head up as though listening from below the source, childhood habit I'm sure. If she still played you would have listened standing straight or perhaps looking down." Martin nodded.

"And how you knew it was my sister?"

"Lucky guess, good one though."

"You don't guess." He remarked dryly.

"No, you're right. But as the only girl in a family of boys, and the youngest too, she would have been doted on. If she wanted to learn, she learned." Martin nodded. He didn't feel bitter, not at all, he loved his sister, and as the middle child he was used to not being special. Sherlock seemed to read this in an instant. "Martin?"

"Hmm? Oh, god, sorry I was in my own little world." Sherlock read the slight slump of his shoulders, the slight downturn of his mouth and stepped up to him, looking down at him.

"You're special." He said softly.

"W-what?" Martin had forgotten how observant Sherlock was.

"I said you're special, Martin." He gently trailed his hand over his wrist, feeling the years of suffering and hurt etched into his skin.

"I'm not..." He looked at his feet, blushing to the roots of his hair. Sherlock's fingers on his wrist made him shuffle uncomfortably, and he pulled away. Sherlock looked down at Martin's hands and gently touched them, a cataloguing look in his bright blue eyes.

"Pianist..." He murmured, intentions once more clear. "Competent." Martin felt himself shrink almost miserably. "Don't hide..." Sherlock admonished softly, turning Martin's hands up so he can see the palms.

"I'm not used to this." Martin countered, his cheeks still tinged with scarlet.

"Used to what?" Sherlock softly tugged the sleeves of Martin's jumper up, revealing a past riddled with self hate and hurt.

"This. Closeness." Martin closed his eyes as Sherlock's fingers trailed up his arm in a gentle circular motion, cataloging and memorising the position of each scar.

"You should know by now that I have no concept of personal space." Sherlock's voice was deadpan and it was indeed true; he was standing practically nose to nose with Martin, his lean body radiating heat that Martin's piteously undernourished body was gratefully accepting.

"I know." Martin's voice was soft, almost apologetic.

"What's wrong? Have I... Have I upset you?" Sherlocks voice quavered, as though actually afraid.

"No just... Uncomfortable." It was as close as an explanation as Sherlock was going to get. How could he tell the Consulting Detective that having his scars caressed in this way made him feel unworthy. It was a part of his past he wanted to stay hidden, buried beneath the layers of clothing he wore.

"Sorry." Sherlock dropped his wrist as though burned, retreating back into himself. Martin cursed inwardly, this was not what he wanted.

"No... It's fine..." He gently ran his fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand.

"I should never deduce you." Sherlock murmured, looking at the floor.

"I think it's wonderful. This skill you have..." Martin said softly, his fingers still on Sherlock's hand and pressing lightly against the skin.

"People don't... Don't normally say that." He whispered into the oppressive silence.

"I'm not people."

"No I... I don't suppose you are." Sherlock offered a weak smile and looked up at Martin. "Will you play for me?"

"W-what?"

"The piano. Will you play for me? It seems only fair that after I've played for you, you reciprocate."

"I... O-of course." Martin pulled his hand away, the tremulous thread of the silence that engulfed them finally snapping. Sherlock flipped down his icy exterior.

"I'm glad you liked it. I wasn't intending on an audience."

* * *

_Drop me a review if you liked it! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey hey! Another chapter :3 I hope you like it! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone (:_

_Um... there may be smut in the next chapter. Maybe. Probably. If you don't like that let me know and I'll make it so it adds absolutely nothing to the story. If you do... um... I hope I don't disappoint! (Note the maybe. I might prolong the inevitable for funsies)_

* * *

Martin straightened his tie, nerves jangling and his hands started to shake. He combed a hand through his unruly hair and tucked the credit card into the back pocket of his jeans. His jacket hung loosely off his body, and his shirt was a little baggy but it couldn't be helped. His fingers trembled on his phone and he gently slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt.

"You're going on a date." Sherlock remarked bluntly as Martin stepped out of the bedroom, tugging his jacket down past his sleeves.

"I am." His face split into a small grin. "Yeah, I am. Me. Martin Crieff going on a date. I can hardly believe it." He hugged himself briefly, giving a small smile.

"With whom?" Sherlock rolled off of the sofa and looked at him from his sitting position.

"Her name's Molly..."

"Hooper?" Sherlock's brows contracted.

"Y-yeah. Do you... Do you know her?"

"She was good to me. Is good to me." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I hope it's... Fun." Sherlock huffed and rolled back over to stare at the backrest.

"Thank you." Martin said uneasily, feeling as though he'd upset the other man. He carefully picked his way across the room and squeezed his shoulder.

"Keep safe tonight? Please?" He squeezed once more before departing down the stairs to the outside. Sherlock lay still for a long time, wondering what it was about Martin having a date that made his chest ache so much.

* * *

Molly and Martin had met at the Scotland Yard summer party a week ago. Lestrade had made sure Sherlock and Martin had turned up, and a man that Sherlock used to rent Baker Street with named John had also been invited by Lestrade. Sherlock was caught talking to John when Molly had walked past, seeming a little out of her depth. She hadn't been looking where she was going and had walked into Martin, turning red furiously.

"N-no. God, oh my god I'm so sorry!" She babbled, her hair in a slight disarray.

"Oh no its f-fine!" He managed out, taking her drink as she rearranged herself. "I'm M-Martin. Captain Crieff Martin, oh god no that's wrong, Captain Martian Crieff of Martin air... Oh no that's not right either..." He sighed miserably, expecting her to have disappeared. She hadn't.

"Molly." She turned a small shade of pink. "It's nice to meet you, Mr Crieff."

"M-Martin, please." He gave her a tiny smile.

"So... How did you get invited here? John asked me because he knows I've been a bit sad. I'm not good with people really, only dead ones. Oh no, god, sorry."

"That's okay." he smiled and gently squeezed her shoulder. They were both flushed pink. "S-so can I g-get you a drink?" He stammered.

"Oh! Oh, um, yes of course." They had become friends that night, and Martin had tentatively asked her out on a date, which she accepted.

* * *

Martin stepped inside the restaurant, a good Italian place just around the corner from Baker Street, and found the table he'd booked, threading his way across the plush carpeted floor. He had just settled with a glass of water when Molly turned up, her long dark hair cascading down her back and the dress she was wearing accentuating her figure.

"H-hello..." Martin was a little bowled over by how breathtaking she looked.

"Oh, um, hey." She blushed and so did he, but it wasn't embarrassing in the slightest.

"You l-look lovely." Stammer almost under control, he offered a smile. "Wine?" He asked softly, giving her a small smile and finally shrugging his jacket off.

"That... That would be great." She gave a small smile in return, a tentative curling of her lips to mirror his. He nodded and carefully poured her a glass from the bottle the waiter had supplied him with, a red house special that he didn't care too much about to remember the name. It progressed from there, Martin occasionally lapsing into silence when he didn't know what to say, Molly occasionally brushing her hair back from her face, the bracelets on her wrists jingling softly.

Part way through the meal the waiter had placed a candle on the table and then disappeared without a trace. Molly's face was cast in a shadow, but it accentuated her features and made her seem beautiful. Martin blushed at the idea that he was on a date with her, but somewhere in the back of his subconscious he couldn't get the hurt look his flatmate had given him out of his mind.

"If you'll excuse me a moment." He smiled and slipped from the table to go to the bathroom. Once there he looked at his phone, no new messages there, not that he was surprised; nobody ever texted him unless it wasn't really important.

_How are you doing without me?_  
_Martin_

_Aren't you on a date?_  
_SH _

_Fabulous deduction, Sherlock. I asked a question._  
_Martin_

_I'm fine. Why are you texting me? You are on a date after all._  
_SH _

_I don't know, I'll see you later._  
_Martin_

No response to that, not that he was expecting one. He slipped his phone away and ran a hand through his curls. After splashing his face with water, he have himself a smile in the mirror. He was on a date with a girl who seemed to really like him, and she was undoubtedly gorgeous. Martin forced himself to remember that and then clasped his hands behind his back, straightening himself up.

If Douglas could see him now! If Sherlock could see him now... He forced his mind from the thought. _You're with Molly, think about her_; he admonished himself briskly. The rest of the date progressed fine, and as they left, Molly slipped her hand into his, a tiny smile on her face.

"I really had a good time tonight." She blushed and squeezed his hand. He gave a little smile in return and nodded.

"Me too." She leant up and aimed for his cheek, but he turned his head at the wrong time and she placed a gentle kiss on his lips. They both flushed scarlet.

"Goodnight, Martin." Her cheeks were flaming as she climbed into a cab, Martin standing as though in shock. He raised a hand to his lips in bewilderment. It had been nice, to be kissed, but it felt... Wrong. He was turning his phone idly in his hands when he realised that he'd been letting his mind drift to Sherlock. His heart froze, blood turning to ice in his veins. Sherlock. _Of course..._ He tried to push the idea away, but it had taken root in his mind.

The walk back to Baker Street was too short.

* * *

Sherlock was draped over the sofa when Martin made his reappearance, seeming for all the world as though he didn't want to be noticed.

"It went badly, I take it." He remarked, surprised at the coolness of his voice.

"N-no." Martin's voice wavered and he looked away from Sherlock's intent gaze.

"Don't bother lying, you know it's impossible." Martin turned bright red.

"It didn't go badly! It just... It..." _Wasn't you_, supplied the little voice in the back of his mind.

"Do tell, I don't have all night." He drawled, one arm flung over his face to hide his eyes from Martin. The pupils had an irritating habit of dilating every time Sherlock saw him.

"Never mind." Martin dragged himself from the room, wishing with every fibre of his being that Sherlock would follow, but knowing in his heart he wouldn't. Sherlock heard the upstairs bedroom door click shut, and gazed up at the ceiling, all that was between him and the pilot. He probed these new emotions gently, a little wary. They were strong, intense, and he felt a sigh escape his parted lips.

_Fuck._

* * *

_Drop me a review if you liked it! _


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey hey! Another chapter :3 I hope you like it! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone (:_

_No smut! Because prolonging is fun :3_

* * *

Martin was still awake, dressed and face down on his bed when Sherlock started gingerly ascending the stairs. The light from the street lamp outside was casting orange rectangles over his back and one outstretched hand. He couldn't bring himself to care. His jacket was puddled on the floor, his shirt was untucked but not undone, and the rest of his clothes were horribly wrinkled from how he was lying.

He heard the door click as the handle was turned, but once more didn't really care about who was coming in. His face was pressed into the pillow and he closed his eyes tightly. He'd been crying. Not much, mostly in frustration. His bed sank somewhere around his waist and he shifted a little to give the intruder more room.

"Martin?" The voice was soft, undeniably Sherlock's, and he ignored it in favour of wallowing in his own misery. A hand lightly brushed over his lower back, trailing up his spine. Sherlock was watching the other man intently for any sign that he'd overstepped the mark, but Martin gave no indication of that. Sherlock softly ran his fingers over the independent bones in Martin's spine, his heart aching at how skinny the other man was.

His hand stilled movements for a little while, but he carried on up his back after a few calculated seconds. It was likely that Martin's back would cause him pain at the base of his spine, and his fingers slowly traced and worked the tension from what he'd deduced was the painful area. The angle he was at made it difficult, so he knelt on the bed and gently worked the muscles with steady hands.

"Sherlock..." Martin's voice sounded almost like a plea.

"Roll over." He prodded him, but just enough to get him to turn over. Martin gazed up at him, green eyes wary. He gently placed a hand on the centre of the pilots chest. "I can't help you unless you take your shirt off. Are you okay with that?" Martin looked up at him, biting his lower lip nervously before giving a tense nod.

"Y-yes." The stutter irritated him, and he flicked his eyes from Sherlock's face.

"It's okay." He said softly, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and easing it off his shoulders. He ignored the urge to lean down and kiss the pilot, instead imploring him to roll over again so he can work on his back. The shirt gets neatly folded and drops to the floor so Sherlock can continue work. He moved to straddle Martin's thighs. "Is this okay?"

"F-fine." Martin flushed pink due to the stammer and once more buries his head in the pillow. Sherlock is gentle now, easing the tension and the pain with his cool fingertips on Martin's fevered skin. His eyes widen slightly as he realised the implication behind Martin's warmth. Hurriedly, he climbed off and sat cross legged behind the pilot.

"Martin." His voice is soft, imploring. "Martin... Sit up." He carefully rolled his sleeves up as he waited, eyes fixed on Martin. The pilot slowly sat up and brushed a stray hair from his forehead, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"What is it?" Sherlock pointedly indicated the gap between them and implied Martin to move closer.

"Just be quiet a moment I need to think." He steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned his head back to think, ideas flashing constantly through his mind. Martin stared at him, one hand itching to caress the Detective's cheek. He looked, in this odd light, ethereally beautiful. His hair was glimmering with a soft orange glow, his pale features accentuated by the harsh, artificial light. Sherlock looked beautiful. Martin looked... Ordinary. Dull. He cast a quick look over his too skinny stomach, his thin waist, his ruined arms and then looked at Sherlock. They were worlds apart.

"Don't." The familiar, deep voice drawled, iridescent grey eyes open and gazing at Martin.

"W-what?" His voice rose an octave or so in his nervousness.

"You think you aren't good enough. Not worthy of..." Sherlock swallowed. Such a tiny word but it would not come out.

"You." Martin finished the sentence for him, blushing furiously. Sherlock looked up at the pilot and nodded, placing a hand on the bed.

"Yes. Me." Sherlock gave a tiny sigh and then looked away, his mind telling him how dangerous this was, to put his life and emotions in the hands of another. He gingerly reached for the pilots hand, trailing his fingers over the pale skin, letting his fingertips linger on Martin's pulse.

"What do you want from me?" Martin asked oh so quietly, the words almost not coming out. Sherlock met his eyes, their hands still together on the bed.

"I don't know." Sherlock's voice had changed. It was no longer arrogant and self assured, it was the voice of someone frightened by what might happen in that moment. The silence hung suspended in the air for well over a minute. Martin gently squeezed the hand he was holding and that drew Sherlock's gaze to his face.

"Tell me." Martin's voice was soft and rich, washing over the two of them.

"I want..." Sherlock paused here, his thumb stroking the back of Martin's hand. "I want..." He growled in frustration and pressed his lips into a thin line.

"Me too." Martin's voice was soft, barely audible. "I was on the date and I... We kissed and it..." Martin looked away. "It didn't feel right." Sherlock tilted his head to one side and observed him closely.

"But you aren't gay." Sherlock said, puzzlement dashing across his features.

"I know I don't... I'm not gay but to be with anyone but you feels... Wrong." Sherlock observed him carefully. "I'm not gay." Martin reiterated softly.

"But you're attracted to me." Sherlock exhaled slowly.

"That's right. Can I... Can I kiss you?" Martin turned scarlet, almost afraid to ask. Sherlock's eyes crinkled in a smile. "I've never kissed another man before I don't-." But whatever he was going to say was cut off by the softest press of Sherlock's lips to his. The detective made to pull back, but Martin slipped a hand behind his neck and pulled him closer. "Don't go." He breathed against Sherlock's lips, not quite kissing him again. Sherlock gently stroked his hand.

"You're sure about this?"

"Are you?"

"Yes. I can tell you are too." Sherlock softly trailed a hand up to slide it into Martin's hair and closed the gap between them. It was awkward, but gently Sherlock guided the pilot, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Martin felt his other hand slide to the base of Sherlock's spine and he pulled him flush to his body, feeling Sherlock's tongue run over the seam of his lips. He parted them, the feeling warm end welcome in his mouth, his hands tightening on Sherlock's arms. Sherlock was the first to pull away, and he gently placed a kiss on Martin's forehead.

"Stay." Martin gazed up at him. "Please..." Sherlock kissed the pilot briefly on the lips again.

"Of course."

* * *

_Drop me a review if you liked it! _


	8. Chapter 8

_Coming to you from the City That Never Sleeps! Yes, I'm in New York! It would have come to you about a week ago from the Sunshine State or Florida but the internet sucked there._

_ANYHOW. Second to last chapter maybe? I don't know, as always I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

Sherlock felt a soft dip as the mattress moved. He was already wide awake, eyes closed, thinking. Martin was trying, and failing, to sneak out of his arms. The pilot was pale and shaking, nervous as hell and desperately embarrassed. Sherlock opened his eyes and, without thinking, grabbed Martin's wrist.

"Don't go." He drawled, finally turning to look at him, eyes clear and bright. "Martin, please." His words were softly spoken, but rung through the small room.

"B-but I thought..."

"Wrong. Stay." Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and gazed at him, the hand on Martin's wrist tightening slightly.

"But you're not... You're not gay and... And I'm not gay I..." Sherlock huffed slightly, pulling Martin fully onto the bed.

"Must you label us?" Sherlock released his wrist, but kept his fingers trailing over the skin there, feeling the small ridges of scar tissue and drawing in a breath. Martin blushed and looked away, keeping his eyes averted. His teeth worried his lower lip as fingers trailed up his forearm, running over the ridges there.

"Don't..." He squeaked, acutely aware and ashamed. The feel of Sherlock's fingers bringing his wrist up burned, and he fought to keep it by his side. Sherlock was stronger, long fingers warm and tight, lips even warmer when they brushed the skin.

"Shh..." He murmured, breath causing goosebumps on Martin's skin. Martin bit his lip, keeping his eyes away. Sherlock turned Martin's face to his and gently pulled his lip from his teeth. "I don't want an explanation, I can already tell." His voice was soft, thumb brushing over Martin's cheek and cupping it delicately. Martin burned with shame and recaught his lip with his teeth.

"I..." Sherlock gently pulled his lip out of his teeth again.

"No explanations." He reiterated softly, cupping the pilots cheek in his hand. "No explanations. No shame. No fear." He murmured gently, uncharacteristically human of him. Martin nodded, resisting the urge to suck his lower lip back into his mouth. Sherlock seemed to read this, and he swept down and kissed him full on the mouth, keeping the pilots lip away from his teeth.

The suddenness and the ferocity startled Martin and he gave a soft whimper, melting into the kiss, allowing Sherlock to lead. He gently shifted so that he was cradling Martin's head in his hands, kissing him in small bursts, gently coaxing. The fact that he was kissing a man, and not only a man but his flatmate seemed to suddenly kick in and he backed away, shaking his head.

"I... I c-can't do this." Martin whimpered, sliding out of the bed and pressing his back against the wall. "Sherlock it's... It's... It's you!" He roughly shook his head. "It's you I..." He trembled, staring wide eyed at him. "You're so... So out of my league." Sherlock sighed and followed him out of the bed, gingerly placing his hands on his arms.

"Martin please, whether you think I'm out of your league or not... I..." Martin shied away, pressing his back against the wall.

"I d-don't do the... The..."

"Boyfriend thing?" Sherlock made a face, indicating his distaste of the phrase.

"Y-yes. I've never I mean... I haven't... Never with a man I.." Sherlock released his arms gently, pulling back.

"I have. My brother may believe the contrary, but I have." He wrinkled his nose, as if reliving painful memories. "And I, if you want, wish it to be you. My next, my hopefully last." Sherlock continued to back away, gazing at Martin warily until his thighs collided with the bed and he sat. Martin gave a tiny whimper as if something had been ripped from his chest and slid down the wall.

"I don't know." His voice was a whisper, and his hands covered his face. "I don't know." He murmured again, dropping his gaze and staring at the cream carpet.

"What don't you know?" Sherlock was beside him in a moment, kneeling but not touching. Martin shook his head slowly, gaze firmly on the floor.

"I... I've always been..."

"Straight?" Sherlock let out a humourless, barking laugh.

"W-well yeah..." He shrugged awkwardly.

"You spent the night sleeping, not only in the same bed, but in my arms and you seemed perfectly happy to kiss me last night but... Fine."

"Last night was..."

"A mistake." Sherlock finished for him, and abruptly stood to leave. "We can still live together, I'm sure." He said coldly, before sweeping away, leaving the pilot to his thoughts.

* * *

Martin took four hours to come to terms with three things.

_1. He'd spent his entire life searching for 'the one' and after thirty two years had found them._  
_2. He'd just ruined his chance with 'the one' because of his uncertainty._  
_3. He was not gay. He was attracted to Sherlock and no other men. Not gay. _

After working this out, he carefully unfurled from his position against the wall and stood, the room lurching sickeningly. He hadn't eaten in just under eighteen hours, and whereas before he was used to it, now skipping meals was something he rarely did. The room swayed and he did too, pressing a palm against the wall as he struggled to focus.

"Sherlock..." He whimpered, suddenly irrationally afraid. Forcing himself up, he exited the room to the sound of angry and mournful violin playing. He paused in the doorway, staring at the silhouetted figure. Sherlock was swaying slightly in time with his composition. Martin nearly missed it, but Sherlock's arms were shaking and he was making a few small breaths that sounded shaky. Martin's heart nearly broke, and he slowly padded across the room, standing beside him and gazing over to Sherlock.

"Sherlock..." He spoke softly, staring at his back, frightened of the reaction. Sherlock turned, his cold eyes falling on Martin's upturned face.

"What." It wasn't a question.

"Sherlock I'm sorry." Sherlock swept his gaze over Martin and shrugged.

"I'm sure." He made to turn back to the violin but Martin grabbed his hand.

"Sherlock please!" Martin tugged him, the room wavering slightly at the edge.

"What do you want, Captain Crieff?" Sherlock sniffed haughtily and glared down at him, shoving his hands into his back pockets, breaking the contact with Martin.

"You. Only you." He murmured softly, gazing up at him, eyes bright.

"You aren't gay." Sherlock said bluntly, shrugging.

"No." Martin's voice wavered slightly but he looked up at him properly. "But I... I do l-like you." He stumbled over the words, but kept his gaze steady.

"Oh. You like me." Sherlock snorted and pulled his arm fully from his grip.

"Oh g-god how do I g-get you back?"

"What?" Sherlock turned his sharp gaze onto Martin's face.

"I want... I want the chance again. Please, please Sherlock." Martin looked up at him imploringly, his eyes watery. Sherlock gingerly placed the violin down and walked him towards the window, staring out at London.

"Why?" His voice dropped to a small whisper.

"Because you're... You're you. And you're... Everything I want. I've ever wanted." He looked up at him, tentatively placing his hand over Sherlock's.

"Then, if it is what you want, then it is also what I want." He told him softly, fingertips brushing the pilots wrist once more. Martin shuddered, and Sherlock slowly slipped an arm around him, drawing him close. Martin held close to him, resting his head against his shoulder and giving a tiny smile. Sherlock turned him in his arms so that Martin was safely enveloped, resting his chin atop the pilots head.

"M'sorry." Martin murmured softly against his neck. "I didn't mean to... Well anything r-really."

"It's in the past now." Sherlock replied gently, squeezing him a little. Martin nodded, Sherlock warm and comforting in his arms. Sherlock kissed the top of his head absently and then squeezed him again, wincing at how painfully thin Martin was, despite eating properly for the first time in years. Martin cringed a little, aware of what Sherlock was thinking.

"Sorry." He replied to the unspoken words, tightening his grip. With alarming suddenness, Sherlock ducked and kissed him to silence him.

"Shh..." He spoke gently, gingerly coaxing. "Don't be sorry." He lingered against his lips for a moment before releasing him. Martin whimpered at the loss of contact, suddenly uncertain. "You have a flight in an hour, it seemed prudent to let you go." Sherlock shrugged by way of explanation.

"Oh, right yes of course." Martin paused and then leant up to press a gentle kiss against the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I'll see you later."

"Stay safe." Sherlock held him tight. "Now I've got you, I can't lose you."

* * *

_Drop me a review if you liked it! _


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry this is so late! I have another chapter up and ready though so every cloud right? Angst galore right now, but it gets fluffier I promise~**

**I've just not been on home turf for a few weeks, been all over Europe, etc.**

**But I'm back now and completely back in action! I'll post the next chapter within the next couple of days.**

**Warning, UNBETA'D and a few triggering references in this chapter!**

* * *

Being in a relationship with Sherlock wasn't easy. It was a steep and hard learning curve, there was no guide and no way of telling how he would react to certain things, but Martin navigated each sticky section precisely and carefully, always keeping the relationship going. Sherlock helped too, he would do anything to make it easier on Martin, as he knew that the pilot deserved the best he could give.

But it was difficult. Since his early teens Sherlock had been battling a depression that came and went as and when. The depression was what he dubbed the 'black dog' and Martin had witnessed the fallout from that within the first month of moving in.

However, as neither had mentioned the incident with the drugs, it had been forgotten. Sherlock had tried so hard to distance himself from Martin whenever he felt bad, but this time he couldn't. The 'Black Dog' had been lurking in his peripheral vision for a few days, but he'd been steadfastedly ignoring it in favour of attempting to make it go away. It hadn't worked. Martin and he had been officially a couple for just under four months when the most powerful attack since he was twenty burst against him and into his very core.

The dog had been hounding and pacing closer and closer for a week, but suddenly it was on top of him, dragging him down. It was all he could manage to drag himself to his bedroom and collapse on his bed. He couldn't think past that, past getting somewhere safe. As soon as he'd got to his bed it had begun in earnest, every bad and painful memory ever, everything that had hurt him.

_Sebastian cheating on him, calling him a freak and that he'd only been using him to experiment to see if he was gay. That memory hurt so bad because Sebastian was his first love, his only at the time. His first anything. It ached, even now._

_Figuring out his father had been having an affair. The look on his mothers face when he'd announced it at the table, the sheer hurt and sadness that broke up the family, what he blamed himself for._

_The guilt of using drugs for the first time, the self hatred for caving into the pressure to try them._

_Being found by Lestrade in a car park passed out and off his head on heroin. Lestrade looking after him._

_Detoxing for the first time._

_The look on John's face when Sherlock had got angry at him, properly angry._

_The look on Martin's face when he'd seen him passed out in a drug haze._

_The disappointment in his brothers eyes when he'd broken his clean streak._

_The very first draw of a blade on his skin, the hot rush of blood and the hatred of what he'd done._

All this swirled through his mind as the fog descended, the dog circled, keeping its jaws locked on his wrist to keep him incapacitated. Sherlock was just blank on the outside, but the inside was a turmoil of terrible emotions and hurt, full of hatred and bad memories. On the inside he was crying hard and desperately, desolate to his very soul.

* * *

Martin had been away on a few short flights over the week, and he had arrived home with shopping after not spending a full night at home for over seventy two hours.

"Sherlock?" There was no answer. Sherlock was lying on his bed, desperate to shout back but unable to pull himself out of the depths of his depression to even speak. Martin cocked his head to one side. His coat was hanging up and the door had been unlocked, open so that Martin could get in. Martin worried his lower lip with his teeth and hurriedly put the shopping away.

"Sherlock?" There was still no answer and Martin began to get more worried, the silence oppressive and terrifying. He carefully took off his new coat - a present from Sherlock for his birthday - and hung it up on the hook. With trembling hands he shucked his pilots jacket and folded that over his arm, before padding up the stairs to the room they shared. Sherlock was still in an almost catatonic state, staring at the wall with dull eyes.

"Hey." Martin knelt in front of him and ran a finger over his cheek, the lack of response worrying him. Sherlock gazed up at him with eyes glazed with sadness and what seemed like tears glistened in the corners. "What is it?" He murmured softly, gently brushing his hair from his face. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to reply, the sheer effort of forming words too much to even contemplate.

"Hey, I'm here." Martin said softly, cupping his face in his palm and gently kissing his forehead. "Are you sick?" He asked quietly, not really expecting an answer. When no answer came, he slowly stood and sat on the bed beside him, stroking his spine in soft movements, until Sherlock finally stirred a little. He smiled at him and lay on his side beside his stricken lover, one hand on his shoulder blade.

"I'm here." Martin murmured into his ear, encouraging him to cuddle up to his chest. When he finally had Sherlock in his arms, he tightened them and squeezed him. "I told the cabin crew about us today." He said gently, content on feeling the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. "I meant to tell them before... It just... They all knew I guess." He smiled at the memory, holding him gently.

* * *

_Douglas looked over at the pilot beside him, he'd been strangely cheerful for the past three days and it was a little disconcerting._

_"Martin?" He drawled, flicking the lights on as darkness engulfed the cabin._

_"Douglas?" He countered, leaning back a little in his seat and adjusting a few dials._

_"Why are you so... Chipper?" Douglas raised a brow elegantly._

_"Chipper?" He turned to look at him._

_"Yes. Chipper." He leant back and gazed at Martin. _

_"I don't feel any different." Though he was lying, he felt smug that he had something Douglas didn't._

_"You look smug." Douglas shot back flatly._

_"I could be." Martin had a small smile on his face._

_"Carolyn finally agreed to pay you?" Douglas replied sourly._

_"Nope." He smiled again, and then gazed at the controls._

_"So... What? Girlfriend?"_

_"Not quite." He kept the smile on his face and adjusted the route slightly._

_"So... What?" Douglas leant back properly and fixed his full attention on Martin._

_"I'm... A man. Who loves another man."_

_"No need to be so archaic. We all thought it." Martin raised his eyebrow then._

_"Oh?"_

_"Of course, we all knew you weren't straight."_

_"Well... Great." He leant back in his seat and continued to adjust the controls he could reach._

_"So, pray tell, who is this partner of yours?"_

_"Sherlock Holmes. Know of him?" He smiled at the look on his coworkers face._

_"That detective? The genius?"_

_"My flatmate and now partner, yes." He smiled again and pressed the seatbelt sign. "Cabin address please Douglas."_

* * *

Sherlock listened to every word, curled up, a prisoner of his own mind. Martin talked himself hoarse, finally falling asleep mid sentence and cuddling up to Sherlock. The words had filtered into Sherlock's mind, and he gradually began to uncurl and feel the 'Black Dog' remove itself from his peripheral vision. Martin was cuddled against his side, thin chest rising and falling slowly in time with his breathing. Sherlock very carefully moved so that he was cuddled under his arm and let himself fall into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

Morning came with the arrival of sun, slanting through the curtains and shattering on Martin's face and waking him up. He turned over and stroked Sherlock's hair back from his face, being very gentle.

"Feeling better today?" He asked softly, feeling Sherlock's body stir under his hand.

"You stayed..." Sherlock replied huskily, eyes opening a fraction to let the bright sunlight in.

"Of course." Martin raised a brow, a clearly confused expression on his face. "Where else would I be?" He asked gently, tilting his partners chin up.

"Most people... Run away..." He said slowly, watching his face carefully, before kissing his lips very tenderly.

"Just because you're having a bad day? Never." He smiled gently and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "Come on, I'll make you some breakfast, you must be hungry." Seeing the look on Sherlock's face he sighed. "No arguments."

* * *

**Ugh sorry for the delay. I've been so so busy!**

**As always, review if you have time(:**


	10. Chapter 10

**Again, late, but I had this written~ Someone asked me about John so there you have it, I think I tied up the loose ends there a little.**

**This is perhaps the last chapter, depending if I can summon the energy to write another**

**If I can't, you can find me either on: notflyingwithotters . tumblr . com**

**Or (more likely) friendsarentmyarea . tumblr . com**

* * *

Martin had always hated weddings. Sherlock had never been invited, except to his ex-flatmate John's; he'd usually insulted the couple in some way. So when the invite to Caitlin's wedding dropped through the door, Martin felt an incredible thrill of dread, and stared at it for a while. When Sherlock had woken, early afternoon as he'd been awake for over fourty hours before, he sat himself down on Martin's lap and curled his arms around him.

"What's wrong?" He murmured softly, pressing his nose into Martin's hair.

"Nothing." He replied just as softly, taking a sip of his tea.

"You're lying." Martin gave a quiet sigh.

"I, well we, have been invited to my sister's wedding." He kept his arms around Sherlock, the consulting detective warm and reassuringly solid against him.

"Which is a bad thing?" Sherlpck quirked a brow and ran a hand along Martin's arm.

"Caitlin and Simon were always the favourites to my dad. I'm the middle child so no one was really interested in me." Sherlock kissed his temple lazily.

"I am. Do you want to go?"

"It's an obligation... They are family."

"Do you want me there?" Martin nodded and rested his head against Sherlock's chest. "I find weddings intolerably dull, however for you I'll suffer it."

"Love you too." He smiled and felt Sherlock laugh quietly beside him.

* * *

Caitlin and her husband were married on a sunny Saturday morning just under a hundred miles from London, and Sherlock and Martin were in attendance. Despite Sherlock's deductions about the family and the glares he was getting, Martin was incredibly glad he was there. Especially at the reception when he had to give a speech, he kept a hand in Sherlock's.

"Right... Caitlin knows how bad I am at speeches... So I'll keep this as short as I can. I'm Martin and I'm his- her! Her brother. I'm so honoured to be here and you look beautiful Caite. I um... Um... Yeah congratulations your husband is a very lucky woman. Man! Very lucky man!" He blushed bright red and sank into his seat, hiding his face in Sherlock's shoulder as the majority of guests glared at him.

"I was awful." Martin murmured into Sherlocks shoulder as the short smattering of applause died a death. Sherlock squeezed his hand gently and kissed the top of his head, earning a few sidelong glances from the elderly people sat near them.

"It doesn't matter that you aren't good at speeches." Sherlock told him gently, rubbing his back in small circles.

"You agree I was bad?" He sniffed, slightly put out.

"You just need practise." He comforted soothingly, wrapping his arms loosely around Martins waist. "And you were fine." He added hastily as he saw the look in his partners eyes. Martin glared briefly, but settled down against him, watching the other speeches with feigned interest, feeling Sherlocks heart beat against his back.

* * *

Speeches and meal over, the lights began to dim and a spotlight lit up the dancefloor as Caitlin and her husband stepped onto the pale golden floorboards, varnished and reflecting back the shattered light from the ceiling. Martin stayed resolutely sat, pretending not to notice Sherlocks glances as the floor began to fill with couples. As the chorus of "Time Of My Life" faded into the second verse, Sherlock took Martins hands and pulled him up.

"N-no Sherlock I don't dance."

"Well I do." Martin bit his lip hard at the slight teasing quality in Sherlocks voice and gazed at him.

"Please." His voice was hushed.

"Trust me."

"I do! But I'm so clumsy and if I get dizzy I pass out..." Sherlock gave him an uncharacteristically warm smile and pulled him close.

"I won't let anything happen to you. I swear."

"Sherlock..." Martin pleaded quietly, already blushing in the dim light.

"Trust me." He said softly, taking his hands and leading him onto the dancefloor. Martin shook his head, horribly apprehensive.

"No I'll look stupid, please Sherlock." Sherlock kissed his cheek.

"I've got you." One arm very gently slid around his waist, while the other kept its hold on Martins hand. "Hand on my shoulder." He told him softly, wincing a little at how tight he was being held, Martins nails digging into his skin very slightly.

"I can't do this." He whimpered softly, making to pull away. Sherlock kept his arms tight around Martin, slowly leading him in a simple step, smiling as Martin kept up.

"You can." He murmured gently. Martin shook his head and blushed, hiding his face in Sherlocks shirt.

"I really can't, Sherlock." But his protests were less forceful than before, and Sherlock started to lead him in more complicated steps, until he felt Martin stumble a little and pulled him close, just swaying as the track changed.

"Are you alright?" He asked him softly, conscious that he might have made him dizzy.

"I started thinking about how I couldn't dance and I tripped..." He muttered, keeping his gaze averted. Sherlock smiled and kissed his temple very gently.

"You did great." He told him, leading him into a corner and revolving on the spot.

"I tripped. Why can't I ever be good at something?" Martin sighed and made to pull away, but Sherlock brought the shaking pilot close to his chest.

"You're a good pilot, you're a good person, and you're a fantastic partner to me." Sherlock soothed, draping his jacket over Martins shoulders. "I'll get you a drink." He kept a hand on the small of his back and lead him to the bar, ignoring the stares.

* * *

As the evening drew to a close, champagne was poured and several toasts made to the couple, and the band struck up for its final half hour set. Martin sipped his champagne nervously, very aware that his alcohol tolerance was low and he'd had a few other drinks before. Sherlock draped his arms around him and nuzzled into his hair.

"Having a good time?"

"If you weren't here I'd have left ages ago." He replied, leaning back into his touch. Sherlock smiled gently, lips pressed against Martins neck.

"Well I'm pleasantly tipsy, I wanted to experiment." He squeezed him again. His hands took Martins as he stepped in front of him.

"Don't make me dance again." Martin blushed and chewed his lip as Sherlock gave a tiny smile, pulling him onto the nearly empty dancefloor. Martin shook his head, opening his mouth and aiming to protest, but Sherlock silenced him with a kiss.

"Father of the groom has been wondering about us all night." He smiled again, ignoring the few dirty looks they were getting from the grandparents in the room, and concentrating on the majority that were watching them with smiles on their faces.

"I can't dance Sherlock, they're watching..." He paled now, gazing up at his lover with a scared expression on his face.

"I'll lead." He said softly, returning to the position before and leading him around the floor, making it so that Martin couldn't trip, and if he did no one would notice.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"Dancing with my partner at a wedding, is that not what people do?" He smiled at that, going on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"It's disconcerting. But I like how attentive you're being." Sherlock beamed, a proper smile, one that Martin hardly ever saw.

"I promised you, after you found me in that... Depression, that I'd be a better partner." He reminded softly, his face pained as though he couldn't bear to talk about it.

"And I told you you didn't need to." Sherlock shrugged.

"I wanted to." He said softly, shifting both hands to Martins waist and feeling the pilot place both hands on his shoulders.

"Thank you." Martin murmured in reply, resting his head on Sherlocks chest and hearing the strong heartbeat resonate in his ears.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered, his lips right against Martins ear, as though he was afraid to say it too loudly. "It's been a while since I felt emotion this strong." He continued, holding the pilot in his arms and slowly spinning, eyes closed.

"I love you too." Martin replied gently, kissing Sherlock on the cheek, and moving to his lips. "You know I do." Sherlock nodded and opened his eyes to gaze at Martin.

"I know. Thank you." He took in a deep breath of Martins scent and squeezed him to him.

"For what?"

"Not running away." Sherlocks voice dropped, suddenly sober. "Everyone else did."

"Never." Martin cupped Sherlocks chin in both hands. "Never."

* * *

**Ugh sorry for the delay. I've been so so busy!**

**I hope you liked it :3**


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